


Done

by Redpine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fix-It, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post 6x12, Sammy Needs It Bad, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redpine/pseuds/Redpine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things were left so tense between them and Dean knows Sam thinks things have only been made worse by the person he had been without his soul, even if he doesn’t remember what he did. The guilt and tension make the tendons bulge in Sam’s neck. It’s sick, but Dean feels relieved to see it. At least Sam can feel, and damn, Dean is just done. Dean’s done letting the past get between him and everything that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Done

There’s only one shitty old bed in the house that they find.

It isn’t unusual. Squatters can’t be choosers, and all. Growing up, sometimes a one bedroom place was all that their dad could afford, and as kids they would fit just fine together on a bed while their dad sawed logs on the couch. It was even still possible when Dean got his height but Sam was still small – once Sam turned into a fuckin’ giant, though, that game was over. There was no way for them to fit comfortably in a single bed anymore.

Normally, Dean wouldn’t give up the bed so easily. Normally, Dean would make Sam work for it, usually a bet in a game Dean knew Sam would lose. Normally, Dean would snuggle down comfortably in his bed and watch Sam scowl while he lay down on the floor, smug like a big brother in a fort with his friends, telling little Sammy that no girls are allowed.

Sam’s been so tired, though. His body hasn’t slept in a year and his soul has been through hell. When they first get in to the shitty old house with the shitty old bed, Dean doesn’t even bother making a show about it. He just bundles up his jeans on the floor for a pillow and lies down. Sam puts his bag on the end of the bed, watching Dean cautiously like he expects Dean to pull out the punch line. It makes Dean warm, though he doesn’t smile. Even after all of this time he likes the feeling of surprising Sam, of catching him off guard. Even after all this time, it’s still easy to do it.

Sam’s breathing hitches when he closes his fist around the collar of his shirt and pulls it up and over with one fluid motion. His movements are slow as he sits down on the side of the bed, bending in half to unlace his shoes. Dean pushes himself up on to one elbow, watching the muscles flex in his brother’s tanned back and shoulders. He’s caught by how easy it is to look at Sam. It’s all Dean wants to do. For a long time, it had just...it had been hard to look at Sam and not hate him, for betraying Dean, for making him hurt so much, for being everything Dean had tried so hard to make sure his brother would never be. Dean had hated the way looking at Sam had made him feel. He hadn’t wanted to do it, hadn’t wanted to touch him. At all. For a long time Dean couldn’t imagine ever wanting to look at Sam or touch him again.

Then Dean lost him. And Dean’s not just talking about hell. Spending all that time with a Sam who wasn’t Sam just made Dean miss Sam. His Sam. Now Dean has his Sam back, and now Dean can`t stop looking at him. He can`t stop searching out the awkward way Sam holds his shoulders, rid of all that chilling confidence. He can`t stop watching Sam stare off into space or at random objects, lost in his own world, a gaze that’s so fucking innocent, no longer so present, calculating, or scheming. Dean can’t stop saying outrageously sexist things, just to see Sam’s mouth tighten like he’s impossibly caught between frustration and affection, like he actually cares about women, like he actually cares about Dean. He’s hopelessly addicted to finding every inflection, every old habit, and every expression that proves Sam is back. He finds them, and he loves them. Loves Sam. God, he loves Sam.

Sam tosses his shoes to the corner of the room, then tosses his hair out of his eyes. Then he sits there quietly, his back to Dean. Dean can’t see his face but he imagines that Sam’s eyes are closed, his jaw relaxed. He’s probably ready to fall asleep sitting up.

Dean pushes himself off the floor, and the mattress sinks beneath his knees as he crawls up behind Sam. Sam’s shoulders and back tense, the muscles bunching, like he isn’t sure what to expect. Things were left so tense between them and Dean knows Sam thinks things have only been made worse by the person he had been without his soul, even if he doesn’t remember what he did. The guilt and tension make the tendons bulge in Sam’s neck. It’s sick, but Dean feels relieved to see it. At least Sam can feel, and damn, Dean is just done. Dean’s done letting the past get between him and everything that matters.

Dean soothes his hands down his brother’s arms, and back up, catching at his shoulders and digging in. His skin feels so good against Dean’s palms, so warm and firm, so achingly familiar, so desperately craved. Dean closes his eyes and brushes his lips against Sam’s ear, presses a kiss to the ridge, his lips catching wetly on the skin just behind.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, his voice caught in his throat. Dean hasn’t touched him in two years. “Dean—”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and he presses another slow kiss to Sam’s neck, then another. “Just shut up, okay?”

It sounds like maybe Sam tries to speak, but Dean’s lips find the first bump of his spine, his nose buried in the hair at the back of Sam’s neck, and Sam’s breath leaves him all at once, catching on the end with a groan. Dean kisses Sam’s neck and back until he’s not tense anymore, until he’s loose and trembling and leaning back against Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Sam is saying breathily, over and over, like now that he has Dean back, he’ll do anything to keep him there. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Dean tells him, like he’s told him before, but this time Dean tells him what he’s held hostage, what he’s never wanted Sam to know until now. “It’s okay.”

Dean rubs his hand down Sam’s stomach, deftly unbuttons his jeans. Sam is hard, his breath catching so often that he can’t even manage words now. He’s so excited, wants this so badly. Dean fists him in his boxers, kisses his neck, jacks him off real slow. Sam has never been that crazy about hand jobs that Dean can remember. Sam has always treated them as a stepping stone to something better. But tonight, Sam is moaning, trying to hitch his hips up even though it doesn’t really do much, his hands sliding all over the bed, trying to find something to hold on to. A stilted chant of Dean’s name and “I miss—I miss y—I missed—” is forcing its way past his lips. When Sam comes, he plants his feet on the floor, shoves himself back against Dean and shudders so hard that Dean has to hold him up with one arm. Dean has never made Sam come that hard with just his hand. He breaths deep against Sam’s neck and wonders what it is, if it’s Sam’s body needing to catch up on sex as badly as it needs to catch up on food and sleep, or...if this was the effect of Sam going so long without him.

Sam is panting so hard, and Dean wipes his hand on his jeans and gets up from the bed. He walks around, pausing just a moment to savour the deep red flush on Sam’s cheeks, the sweat collecting on his forehead. Then he bends down, pulls off Sam’s jeans and boxers, and tosses them aside. He pushes Sam by the shoulders so that he’s lying down on the pillow, then shoves his own jeans down and climbs on too. There’s no room, but Dean happily props himself up over Sam, looking down to watch his brother catch his breath, to soak in that blissed-out look on his face.

“Hah,” Dean says, when it seems like Sam can breathe normally again. “I made you come, bitch.”

Sam doesn’t seem to have the energy to muster up an appropriate response. He reaches up instead, touches Dean’s face, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. He has that look on his face that he gets when he wants to say all the girly things that Dean never lets him say. “You’re still—” he murmurs, slurred. If he was exhausted before, Dean thinks he’s probably three steps shy of comatose now. Still, Sam being Sam, he reaches down to squeeze Dean through his black boxer briefs.

Dean closes his eyes, and catches his bottom lip in his teeth. He’s slow as he reaches down to take Sam’s hand, pulling it off of him, bringing it back up to the bed above Sam’s head. “You need to sleep,” he says, and smirks just for Sam. “I think I can handle this one myself.”

“Gonna—“ Sam mumbles, his fingers curling around Dean’s hand. His eyes have closed, probably against his will. “You gonna—on me, in my sleep?”

“Definitely,” Dean says, grinning at the idea even though he knows he won’t do it. He needs a shower anyway, and he knows the memory of Sam’s back hitting his chest so hard when he came will take care of Dean before the water is even warm.

“Dean,” Sam says, the word coming out of his mouth as heavily as lead. Dean had missed how goddamn stubborn he was, even against going to sleep. “Dean, kiss—”

It’s not exactly poetry for their first kiss in two years to be while Sam is passing out hard. Dean never had much love for poetry anyway.


End file.
